


Distraction

by tristinai



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, F/M, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen struggles to make sense of everything that's happened in her life. Sometimes, she feels that everything is just a distraction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Just finished with Season 2 and felt like writing this. What was initially supposed to start as a PWP excuse to write Kastle smut turned into...this. It became more about Karen coping with everything now that she is no longer at Nelson and Murdock. Please be aware of the warnings before continuing to read. Everything is consensual but if you find descriptive panic attacks or rough sex upsetting, you may want to read something else. Also, apologies for any spelling/grammar errors. I did my best to edit this but I may have missed a few.

In the weeks following that last conversation, Karen experienced a range of emotions. Some days, she woke up feeling bitter, her head trying to wrap around how foolish she had been to not connect the dots sooner. Conversations played on loop in her dreams, each time twisting the words until she found herself believing Matt had told her from the start and she had been too stupid to take him seriously. She became almost too embarrassed to look at her own reflection as she splashed water on her face in a haste to pull her out of the restlessness that carried over in her post-waking delirium.

Then there were the days she felt relieved. Now that she knew the truth, she knew she wanted no part in Matt’s continued web of excuses, in whatever guilt-laden martyrdom had him reaching obsessively for that mask every evening. The numerous eyewitnesses accounts and calls to the Bulletin could only attest that his falling out with her did little to disrupt his evening activities, as much as that truth hurt more than she would like to admit (not even an attempt to reconcile after she told him she was “done”? She wasn’t quite sure if it was her pride or his prevailing absence that hurt more).

And then, like on days such as this, she woke up just feeling beaten down. The weight of all the events since her days at Nelson and Murdock made her body feel heavy. That ache in her shoulders stretched down to the vice that held her lungs and she had to take a moment to grasp at the sheets, sweat trickling down her sides, her shallow breath desperate to take in air and failing.

The body. It was there, _on the floor,_ bleeding out and incriminating her for a night she no longer remembered.

The cold metal of the .380 in her hand. Wesley begins to rise. One shot…he looks surprised. But not as surprised as she is when she fires again. And again. And several more times.

And then there’s Frank…at the other end of that .380, reaching for her as his eyes grip hers, pleading with her to believe him…

A loud crash from outside and suddenly Karen rolls onto the floor, sheets tangling around her body as she cries out. She curls up into a ball, shielding herself as gunshots litter the wall in an endless stream, each one deafening in an attempt to find its mark.

…silence.

She forces herself to breathe. In, slowly. Out, slowly.

She continues this mantra in her head until her lungs begin to listen.

When she lifts the sheet, she stares at the wall. It is almost mocking her in its usual state, absent of the bullets she had been convinced she heard.

The angry shouting match from outside tells her all she needs to know: someone was rear-ended.

She is not sure what’s worse: that she’s crumpled on the floor, cheeks stained and struggling to disentangle the memories that grip her with icy fear, distort her reality and make her doubt who she is. Or that this scene will play again.

There was little she could count on these days. Not on Matt, hardly on Foggy, who was busy making a name for himself at his new firm.

But she could count on waking up to a life she hardly understood any more.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s on edge by the time she makes it back from the Bulletin. It’s already after midnight as she slips inside her dark apartment, not bothering to turn on the lights. All day, she tried to distract herself with research – a new lead, rifling through a year’s worth of old prints – anything to chase the next panic attack she could feel broiling beneath the surface. But by the time 11 hit, she was so distracted by being distracted that she called it a night.

Her fingers trembling, she filled a glass with water from the tap, part of her praying it wasn’t in that slightly yellowed state it had been the week before (“Pipe issue. Fixing it ASAP” building management claimed). But her lips were parched and she was desperate to chase the sense of unease that had been following her all day.

“Karen.”

She gasped, dropping the glass of water. The shattering pulsed in her head but she was already reaching for the nearest knife, ready to defend herself against whoever was in her apartment.

A lamp flickered on and she saw Frank standing near her couch. One of his cheeks had a shallow cut, freshly dried blood staining over faded bruises. He looked no more roughed up than when she had last seen him, if not more exhausted.

“Shit,” she mumbled, shaking her head. She placed the knife carefully onto the counter, forcing another hesitant breath. “I didn’t see you there.”

It was slightly accusatory, maybe more than she meant it to be. She had some quip ready about ‘breaking and entering’ but realized that would be calling the kettle black, given how she had uncovered Frank’s history.

“I came by earlier. Knocked a few times. Needed a place to crash,” he said, indicating to the couch. From the rumpled state of the cushions, Karen guessed he had passed out shortly after letting himself in. She wasn’t sure why he emphasized the ‘knocking’ part – maybe to make her feel like he tried to play by the law for once.

Or maybe it was his way of apologizing. Whatever it was, Karen was too tired and frazzled to analyze the inner workings of Frank Castle’s head.

“It’s fine,” she sighed, more for her own benefit. Because if she couldn’t believe everything was fine, maybe she could at least pretend.

Taking the broom, she bent down to begin sweeping up the broken glass, wobbling a little as pain shot up her legs. She must be going on 14 hours plus in her dark heels, though she didn’t dare kick them off until she could tread on the floor without nicking her stockinged feet.

To her surprise, Frank’s hand gently, but firmly, gripped her elbow, helping her back up as he took the broom from her. “I’ll get that.”

Warmth pooled inside her but for all that his unexpected touch did, Karen pushed it aside as she leaned against the counter. There was almost something endearingly domestic about the intimidating, fear-inducing Punisher on his hands and knees cleaning the shards of glass but it was overshadowed by the burning questions running through her head.

_Where have you been these last few months?_

That was a relatively stupid one. The Punisher left a trail of bodies wherever he went. All she had to do was pull up all the latest articles of gang members killed execution style and she had her answer.

_…why me?_

But she also knew the answer to that.

_“You’re honest. You never lie to me.”_

And suddenly she’s smelling coffee and bacon grease, the dim lights of the diner somehow seeming darker beyond the earnestness in Frank’s eyes, her words hit her with a truth she had taken for granted: she’s believed in him and Frank Castle _trusts_ her. And despite all the gunfire that follows him, the destruction he wreaks in every place he enters, she has a moment of clarity that makes her also think she’s lost her mind: she trusts him, too.

She doesn’t need to ask those burning questions, doesn’t need to know why his cheek’s cut, why he has tears in his dark shirt and who was at the receiving end of the barrel of his gun tonight.

So instead, she asks, “How have you been?”

It’s a loaded question, sure. But Frank can be both simple and complicated with a single word.

“Busy.”

The rings beneath his eyes are telling enough.

He discards the glass in the trash bin and Karen finds herself lost in the silence that follows. There’s a lot that’s unsaid, so much she wants to say. Their last exchange was anything but cordial, with Karen accusing Frank of being the one thing he certainly wasn’t: Dead to her. But an apology sounds cheap in her head and she wasn’t quite sure either of them were in a state to have that conversation.

“I’ll be gone before you’re up,” Frank promises.

Karen knows that should be comforting. The less she associates with a wanted fugitive, the less likely she can be implicated for the blood on his hands. But every time she closes her eyes, she can feel the .380 in her hands, hear the bullets piercing Wesley, and Frank’s muted voice telling her to put the gun down.

She’d like to believe that for the monster half the city claims he is, she needs him to remind her she’s not the monster she’s feared she’s become.

There’s a tremble in her voice she can’t quite cloak. “Sleep well, Frank.”

A tired look is exchanged before she makes her way to her bedroom, ignoring the guns littered across the living room floor.

 

* * *

 

 

Exhaustion comes easy to her these days. It burns beneath her skin, wears her bones down, leaving her brittle and battered, waiting for the relief that never comes. She had hoped that it would get easier with each evening, as time put more distance between now and when everything went to Hell, but all it did was make her more tired. And the more tired she was, the harder it became to sleep.

For hours after her conversation with Frank, she was tossing and turning, slipping between a state of restlessness and patches of sleep that seemed to last no longer than a handful of minutes. She soon managed to soak right through her tank top and flannel pajama bottoms, despite that the cool air of the apartment was indicative of the winter still persisting outside. She tried to chase away the faces that faded in and out of her dreams, the Red Devil that loomed over the bodies, passing His judgment on everyone who put them there.

Karen pleaded, asked Him to understand, explained the thoughtless terror that had rattled her poor judgment. But as his mask melted away, revealing Matt’s unsympathetic face, Karen knew there was only one way to stop the punishment He would rail on her.

She aimed the .380 at his head and fired.

And woke up with a scream.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, her hands balled up into fists at her sides. Her nails dug deeply into her palms, marking her skin and reminding her head in its frenzied state that _this_ was real, not the demons that plagued her sleepless nights. The shaking began as a small quiver, maybe from the strangled sob that tightened in her chest. But soon her entire body was trembling and her lungs for gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

“Breathe,” a voice commanded, strong hands gripping her shoulders.

Through her blurred vision, she could see Frank sitting beside her. In the darkness, she didn’t so much make out the concern on his face as she heard it in his voice.

“It’s easy. Just do what I do,” he tried again. “Breathe in. 3….2….1. Hold. 3…2…1…breathe out. 3…2…1…”

She forced herself to focus, following his count as he guided her through it. Her first few attempts failed, her rasping breaths feeling more like choking, but eventually, she was able to breathe in rhythm to his soothing count.

After a few minutes, she collapsed against his chest with a tired sob. Maybe it should have surprised her when he let her cling to him, sobbing away the unheard voices that whispered everything she had been avoiding these last few months. Sometimes, all it took was a day’s worth of research to keep the memories at bay. Others, it took some hard liquor and cheap over-the-counter medication to silence it.

“I just want it to stop,” she whimpered.

Her voice felt hoarse to her ears. She wasn’t even sure he heard her.

But after a moment, his grip on her tightened. “So do I.”

Frank didn’t need to voice what he meant. He was the only one she felt could understand what she went through, what she was reliving every day. Both of them had their ways of dealing, of distracting: but that was all living had become – distraction.

And right now, she needed that more than anything else.

Her nails scraped the back of his neck as she tilted his face towards her, kissing him roughly with a force that surprised even her. He made a startled sound against her lips, his body tensing against hers but her boldness soon awakened a fever that had him kissing her back, groaning when she bit down hard enough on his lip to draw blood. Her lips became stained by the crimson drops, the taste of copper heavy on her tongue, a thumb sliding hard over the cut on Frank’s cheek and drawing in a rough hiss from him.

No amount of rational thinking could convince her this wasn’t a good idea as she slid onto his lap, pressing roughly down on the erection straining against his jeans. He was all edges, rough and hard, a human weapon who could break necks with his bare hands. She wanted those hands on her hips, to feel the pressure of his fingers grip her so tightly, it would leave a trail of bruises for days.

“K-Karen.”

His voice was deep and coarse, giving away the need that gripped him like it gripped her. But the hesitant note gave her pause, a hesitation that tried to bring a sense of reality back to what she had just instigated.

Karen didn’t want to think. She knew what happened when she thought. It always brought her back to the moment the life left Wesley’s eyes.

She hastily pulled off her damp tank top, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Her skin prickled at the cool air, despite the sheen of sweat still coating her skin. Her bared breasts caused Frank to inhale sharply. Just as she was worried that he would try to interrupt the moment again, his fingers were sliding up her sides, his mouth drawing in one of her nipples.

The sound she made was something akin to a whine. It had been months since she last kissed anyone, probably over a year since she had this kind of intimacy. If their kisses began harsh and unpracticed, it only grew with determined fervor as Frank rolled them over, pressing her into the bed. He fondled her breast with one of his hands, his teeth nipping over exposed skin, leaving marks along her shoulder. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, dragging over his back hard enough to break any skin that came in contact with her nails. She needed more of this, needed to feel as if she was being ripped apart. She needed…

“Frank…”

He was already discarding his shirt, standing over the edge of her bed to kick off his pants. Her eyes were drawn to the myriad of scars that marred his chest, each with a tale of its own. She almost wanted to trace a pattern, connect the dots, know all the parts of him he had never told her but somehow, she knew, he would gladly tell her if she asked.

But there was a desperation in his voice as he whispered her name, his fingers ghosting over the hem of her pajama bottoms. With a slight nod of her head, they were soon discarded with the rest of their clothing, leaving them both completely exposed in a way they had never been with each other. While Frank’s history was told in his blemished skin, hers was in the lack of, a civilian life. It was night and day in how he wore his demons for all to see while hers remained in her head, creeping up on her when she was her most vulnerable.

His fingers began to trail the inside of her thighs, the gentleness in his touch reminding her of the first time they met, when he had asked her about his family. Beneath the layers, there was a warmth to him that nobody else ever saw, ever understood. The only ones who had were murdered in front of him.

Any other time, Karen would have wanted that Frank to kiss her tenderly, hold her, tell her this would all get better.

But that wasn’t the man she wanted to be with tonight.

She was on her hands and knees, pressing back into him when he entered her. He held her hips to steady his balance, slipping into her roughly enough that she made a strangled noise, halfway between a satisfied groan and a cry. She swore she heard him mouth her name, a silent prayer upon his tongue, but the next thrust sent her pressing hard into the mattress, her back arcing up to where their hips met. His name became a repeated plea on her lips, begging to quell the flame that burned deep in the pit of her belly. When he bent low to bite at a patch of skin in the middle of her back, she knew this was marking her in the same way that his vice-like grip on her hips was: this one’s MINE.

“Karen,” he groaned into the crook of her shoulder, begging for his own redemption in whatever release he could find with her. He was now fucking her hard into the mattress, his body covering hers as he lay on top of her, his lips whispering her name into the back of her neck. Her hands tugged on the sheets, her cheeks wet with tears and sweat when she felt the convulsions hit her, her body rocking against his as she rode out the dizzying tremors of her orgasm. A few more thrusts and Frank was collapsing beside her, his gasps for breath the only sound that broke the strange calm that followed.

For a long time, neither said anything. Karen breathed against the sheets, her body turned away from Frank, her skin tingling from the cool air in the room. In the peculiar clarity that came in the aftermath of what they’d done, she felt bared to every secret she had kept for this long. All the cracks that chipped away at the barrier had finally crumbled it and even if Frank hadn’t been there, she was certain she would have confessed to the dark shadows that hugged the edges of the room.

She could no longer live with distractions.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

But if she was expecting judgment, she wasn’t receiving it. If she expected disgust, it wasn’t what motivated the shifting of Frank’s body in her bed.

Instead, she found understanding as he held her tight and let her cry into his shoulder.

 


End file.
